The Three-Eyed Cat

Surely cursed, they carried him, tiny, yowling, still wet from birth, and left him near the time-rift, the death-sentence destiny for all misshapen things. Who could love a three-eyed cat? The hungry time-rift void, that’s who. Hunched against the cold, they didn’t look back, lest his helpless, wriggling form defile their eyes.On the other side of the time-rift, one of the priestesses awoke, yawned and rubbed her eyes, slipped on her mechanical foot, and set out to retrieve him. (She had seen him in a dream, of course.) “Oh, you poor thing,” she said, as she knelt on the coarse black stone. He was silent now, scarcely breathing, and so very small. Cupped in her hands, she offered him the warmth of her heartbeat.“Look,” she said, girlish joy in her voice, waking the others. There was a collective outburst of soft delighted sighs. There were many jeweled and gentle outstretched hands, and more than one exclamation of praise to the deity of the ones who were maimed, cursed, called…